Moon's Daughter
by Zully
Summary: Yeah, it's true, Mom left. Dad and I are going to bring her back, before it's too late. My name? Sure, Isadora Potter. you can figure out the rest for your self.
1. The Predator Lurks in MidDay

**Moon's Daughter**

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own anny of the Harry Potter characters except Isadora and the Jones. The original characters are J K rowling's , all hers._

The cows munching on the green grass looked at our tiny red car with such enthusiasm– the same enthusiasm a little kid has when they tell him he'll have carrots for dessert. I sighed and turned to Dad, who was busy humming his favorite song– a song which up until now I cannot describe nor name it. . . . yet it sounds familiar, but faraway.

"Dad. . . Are we there yet?" I asked him, frowning lightly. I was tired and icky and smelly. Dad was in no better conditions himself. That was our seventh day in the car, with nothing but our old clothes and ten bags of potato ships and a couple of three-litter sodas.

"Not yet. . . we're in Kansas though," Dad said, smiling grimly. His voice sounded like an old rusty can, like the one Mom used to put her dead tulips on. She loved tulips, but when they were dead she said she could not bear to see them every morning. So she buried them on a rusty tin can faraway. . . . On the forest next to our yard.

"Tulips are wild things themselves," she used to say. "Wild things, things that no one seems to tame, nor to change, belong in forests and cascades and nature overall." I devoured her words of wisdom like a hungry pig that has not eaten in five days.

"Ok. . ." I sighed and closed my eyes. I tried hard to fall asleep, but instead, memories flush through my head like the water down Mom's favorite cascade. And other things flush too. . . mostly through my nose.

When Mom left, I didn't know what to fell. I, deep inside, felt as if a part of my body was snatched away from me, under fishy circumstances. What fishy circumstances, one might ask.

Well. . . .

First, three days before Mom left our house in Maine, a man with super dark-red hair came to out door. He was dressed in the most peculiar clothes: a swiveling maroon cloak, tight leather pants, and a white shirt that had a puffy and lacy collar and puffy cuffs. I laughed when I opened the door and saw him. The man's eyebrows went up high above, like when my Mom used to listen to my Dad's rants about the neighbor's chickens making a mess on our yard.

Dad came to the door and saw the man. He went as pale as flour, and his eyes slightly popped out of their sockets. I love my Dad's eyes. They're deep green– emerald green, though he hides them under black-tinted glasses. He has this tiny mustache that makes him look funny, but handsome. My dad _is _handsome.

"Percy. . . what are you doing here?" Dad asked, his lips quivering as he spoke these words. The man looked down to me.

"Is this your daughter?" 'Percy' towered over me by a few feet, but he made me feel like a little child when he looked down at me. He made me feel like I was worth nothing compared to him. Dad noticed how uncomfortable I was, mainly because I kept bitting my lips.

"Honey. . . Go tell Mom the Jones' chickens came to do their business again," Dad barked. I was scared. Dad never ordered me to anything like that. But I did as he told me, hoping this guy was not some debt collector because Dad had a hard time with money in this season.

I skipped across the front yard, and looked back at the man before I opened the front gate. He looked back at me, his eyes deep blue and cold. I got the shivers and ran after Mom.

I found Mom at the Tipsy Hill, which is a few yards from our house. Our house is hidden behind the hill, which isn't that tall, but does tower above Dad for our six feet. Mom was up at the top. Even if I was at the bottom I could still see her yellow hair turn golden because of the sun kissing her wavy, crazy locks. She was sitting, her pale arms hugging her knees, her light-blue dress turning slowly into a deep, rich blue color. It was spring already, and with the beautiful sunsets came some harsh winds. The thin blue dress provided little protection from the cold, so Mom was naturally shivering when I hugged her.

"Sweetheart! What's going on?" Mom had an amazing sharp sense that told her when something was bothering Dad or me. Her eyes, which had been closed, opened alarmingly as she looked at me. I hugged her tight, and wished to forget about the man and Dad's frightened face, and to just loose myself in Mom's silver eyes. . .

"There's some guy. . . Kinda spooky. . . Dad's socks are jumping from fright," I told her, feeling a bit drowsy. Mom picked her arms from her knees and snapped a couple of fingers at me.

"Stay with me sweety. Tell me more. How does the man look like?" Mom's voice, which was always covered in sweetness, patience, and sing-song– sometimes dreamy– had lost all that sweetness and patience and all the other things that made her one-of-a-kind. Instead, she sounded alarmed.

"Well. . . Kinda tall, with dark -red curly hair, and he wears glasses like Dad's, and he has cold blue eyes, and wears the funniest clothes I've ever seen," I told Mom, my heart thumping. This was not good news, clearly, because Mom's dreamy eyes were now like Dad's– popping out of their sockets and dark.

"Funny clothes, you say?" Mom stood up, and dragged me with her as we ran down the hill and back home. I noticed that she was barefooted. But that did not stopped her. She kept on running. She ran and I ran behind her. We arrived in less than a couple of minutes, to find dad sitting on the steps of our front porch, his arms hugging his head which was resting in his lap.

"Harry? Harry, sweetheart, is something wrong?" Mom's voice was worried, like the time we found a stray dog– he had been just run over– and the vet told us he would die (in the end we kept him since he stayed alive, miraculously enough, though he did die a couple of years later from a heart attack).

"They're back. . . They're frickin' back into our lives! He's back Luna, he's back. . . For you and Isadora." Dad's voice sent a creepy feeling down my spine.

Most of all because Mom's name was Willow , not Luna. Not that I knew back then the whole truth, of course.


	2. Shifting Moon

Shifting Moon

We didn't lived in a farm. . . Far from it! It was more like some kind of pet sanctuary. We lived in a small community, where a couple of hills roamed here and there. Well, actually, we had two homes, one in Maine, and another in Kentucky. In the summer we lived in Kentucky, in the fall we went to Maine until summer again. I think it's odd, because normal parents would do it the other way around– live in Maine in the summer and the rest of the year in Kentucky. But Mom was not a normal mom, and Dad far from your typical dad.

In any given case I loved both homes very much. And although we had no other living relatives, we had many friends that visited us here and then. Mom, specially, had many friends– but most of them could not talk. She befriended babies like that, so easy, so naturally. She also befriended any animal that crossed her path, no matter their size or their stink ( once she actually brought a skunk into our Kentucky house. Dad laughed and laughed for days, while I tried to hold my breath every time I passed by the basement, which unconventionally enough the door was next to the kitchen).

Dad, on the other hand, was a bit more normal. He had a few guy friends, most of them farmers or construction workers. Dad tends to confide in mostly everyone he meets, so I suppose the strangers don't like the hostility and prefer Dad's charisma. But Dad is also a great ladies' charmer. As I said, he's not ugly, but rather good-looking, if not gorgeous. If he only worked out. . .

Mom was very pretty. She also smelt good. I remember her hair, blonde and glinting in the sun. When it was night, her hair looked soft, silky, angelic. It was wild, I must admit that, going down gracefully. It was very long too, down to her back. She could sit on it if she wished too, and often she did, mainly to make a point of it to my friends. She smelt like freshly picked gardenias. . . She was young, slim, and pretty. But perhaps her eyes were the attention-catchers. They were large and silver, full of life, energy, and most of all, love. You looked into those eyes, and you just fell in love with Mom. She was full of compassion, and she was so different from all of the other stiff moms. My mom always played with me, or helped me with my homework. She also told me stories at night of dragons and pixies and other made-up creatures. She told me she once crept into Dad's dormitory. . . through a friend of hers and Dad's. . . An elf!

I must admit that secretly I envied Mom. How she was, how she looked, the way she talked. I thought I was just normal, just ordinary. Of course I am. . . ordinary brown hair, ordinary height, and ordinary weight, with an ordinary personality and ordinary clothes. One of the few things I like about myself is the fact that my eyes are a light-blue color, so pretty and so sky-like. Also, I like my hairstyle. . . Two long braids. I know it's not a big thing, but comfort is a main reason I wear such hair-do. And it has its sentimental value too.

I remember once I told Mom how I felt about not being as pretty as she was. Mom laughed the minute I told her. I felt bad and ashamed of myself– it must be a silly thing to feel like that about your own Mom.

"Isa, sweety, I'm not gorgeous! Why, when I was at my old school, people used to make fun of my hair, of my eyes, of my 'oddities' as they liked to call them!" Mom said all of this in a laugh, bending in half and choking on her laughter. It was very contagious, and soon I was cracking up with her too.

"Oddities? Mom, you're the best! You're pretty, and you're so lovable! I can't believe such idiots would make you feel bad!" I was at this confession. I had always thought Mom was very popular during her school years.

Mom looked at me, stopped laughing, and hugged me. She kissed my nose and smiled down at me.

"Oh, but they did not find me in such way. . . Nope, far from it! They used to hide my stuff from me, my text-books, my pencils, my pets. . . Everything would be gone before I woke up! Often did I tried to look for them on my own, but in the end I gave up and asked people for help. Few accepted, and those few later on became my best friends. One such person was your father," as Mom told me this story I sat on her bed, and breathed in her smell and Dad's smell.

"You see, your Dad helped me a lot. I was a maiden in distress in our last year, and he came to the rescue. I knew than he was the one, so I held onto him like glue. His previous sweetheart was not thrilled with the idea, but before you knew it, Harry and I had became a couple! And soon, we married, and had a wonderful little girl. She was very beautiful since the beginning, but we did noticed she lacked confidence. So she came to me one day for help, because she thought she was ugly. . . . And I helped her become more beautiful, because the real beauty is within."

Mom tugged me from the bed and placed me in front of her mirror. It was a large mirror, and looked like an antique. There were words written on the top of the mirror, but I could barely pronounce them, let alone understand what they meant. It was a beautiful mirror though, big enough to see Dad on his entirety. Also, Dad gave the mirror to Mom as a gift on their first anniversary, or so Mom said.

I saw myself and Mom behind me, grinning like a little kid. Her hair was wild, but in a graceful way, while mine was wild, but in an obscene way. It ( my hair) was shoulder-length back then, and loose. I often tried to curl it like Mom's, with the tips of my pencils, all in vain.

Mom searched for something in her skirt's pockets ( she also fabricated most of our clothing) and took out two rubber bands. They were of a golden color and glinted dangerously in the sun's rays. She then took a brush from another pocket and brushed my hair while she sung:

_Down, down, down_

_Down onto the ground_

_Hope has filled this Earth_

_Hatred has become a threat._

_Elves and pixies,_

_Olives and daisies,_

_Humans and animals,_

_Have paid the price._

_Down, down, down_

_Down onto the ground_

_The maiden's limp body_

_Falls into the hole_

_Escape is beyond and beyond._

_We're all alone._

_But the moon showed her face_

_And the maiden smiled_

_Knowing that moon would be there._

_When the lights went out,_

_And when the cold kicked in._

_And so we smile_

_Up at the beautiful moon_

_Just like the maiden,_

_Like every afternoon_

_Ever and forever after._

_Kiss the moon,_

_Touch the moon,_

_Because down, down, down_

_Down onto the ground,_

_There will go Hatred and Illness_

_And triumphant will be Lady Beauty._

I had closed my eyes as I listened to Mom's lullaby. When I opened my eyes I gasped. The girl looking back at me was rather pretty. She had two brown braids and big blue eyes. I liked my new self. So I turned back and hugged Mom, who beamed at me.

"Oh Mom, I am so pretty!" I chirped, looking back at myself. Somehow I felt as if I was looking somewhere deep. . . I knew I was very beautiful.

"Remember Isadora, beauty comes from within."

And then I lost my moon. She shifted from here to there. I kissed her for so many years, and I touched her hair, and hugged her frame, and loved her very much. She protected me from Hatred and Illness. . . . but in the end, what I did was not enough. We should have known. . . But when we did, it was too late.

I still have Mom's memories, however, and that no one can take away from me.


End file.
